


At Dawn, Always

by storiesfortravellers



Category: Greek and Roman Mythology, The Iliad - Homer
Genre: F/M, M/M, War, relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-24
Updated: 2014-12-24
Packaged: 2018-03-03 05:51:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2840360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/storiesfortravellers/pseuds/storiesfortravellers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A YT treat for arysteia, who prompted parallels between the relationships between Hector/Andromache and Achilles/Patroclus.</p>
            </blockquote>





	At Dawn, Always

**Author's Note:**

  * For [arysteia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/arysteia/gifts).



> Mentions of violence, hints at canonical character deaths and enslavement.

_There is a war on. It fills the days with screams, with blood, with guts and filth spilling on the ground._

_At night, there is rest._

_Water, cool, spilling over sweat-drenched hair. A clean tunic._

_Warm hands, wandering familiar paths._

 

Hector leans in, lays gentle kisses on Andromache’s neck, then more, slowly, down her shoulder, his hands gliding lightly up her hip. 

“You are preoccupied,” she notices.

He stops, sighs. Rests his head against her. “I worry what will happen to you when…” He corrects himself. “If….”

She wishes she could tell him not to be afraid, that she will be fine when he is gone, but she has never been fond of lies.

“I wish I could keep you here,” she settles on at last, stroking his hair. “I wish I could stop you from ever putting on armor.” 

She cannot, of course, but neither of them is cruel enough to speak it aloud.

 

_Weary limbs, sprawled out, inviting. Lips, smiling, sad._

_There is noise outside; in a war, there is always noise._

_But when they are alone, the sound dulls, the bustle becomes a distant clang, like the waves of the sea, like the calling of the birds._

 

“I cannot stop you, then,” Achilles says, as Patroclus settles down next to Achilles on his mat.

“I fight tomorrow. You know that I must.”

Achilles stares at him, rubs a gentle hand on Patroclus’ knee. 

“I will return your armor to you,” Patroclus promises.

Achilles pauses, then nods. “I would be destroyed without it,” he says, and they both know he is not speaking of armor.

Patroclus slides a hand up Achilles’ stomach, up to his chest. He feels the heartbeat, strong, unchanging. Achilles puts his own hand over his.

“Stay away from Hector,” Achilles reminds him again. “The man fights for love.”

“I will.” Patroclus moves his hands down to Achilles’ hips, feels the arch of his body.

“I know you care about the Achaeans.”

“I do,” Patroclus says, “But I find myself devoted to one in particular.” 

Achilles smiles. “I’ve noticed.” He pulls Patroclus down, kisses him, runs a hand up his side, then down again. He grips Patroclus’ body, fingers pressing into flesh, clinging tight while the sky is still dark, while the stars still smile down upon them.

 

_Love is a wound, the old ones always say, a shot from an inescapable arrow. Like fate, like history, it pierces bodies, it brings noble men and women to their knees._

_At night, lovers whisper, they caress and embrace, the dance of love and lust until rosy-fingered dawn warms the air._

_In the morning, they return to the world, and the world has arrows of its own.  
_


End file.
